


Forging Victory

by amyfortuna



Series: 2016 Season of Kink (Card 1) [12]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Innuendo, M/M, Scars, Sex in a Smithy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 06:32:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8045902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: Fëanor, newly arrived in Beleriand, seeks out a smith who works a strange metal.





	Forging Victory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/gifts).



> This also fulfils my Season of Kink square for 'places' - the place in question being a smithy!

"A famed smith, here in these lands?" Fëanor said, his fingers moving rapidly across the map that Maglor had laid out for him. 

Caranthir frowned. "A benighted Avar, I think, with more fame than talent," he said. "Those woods can't hold metal worth the working." 

"But that's just it," Maglor said. "The rumour is that the metal this Eöl works is star-iron - black as night, tougher than steel - fallen from the skies in years long past." He turned to his father. "Surely worth a look, at least?"

"I think so," Fëanor said, nodding slowly. "Very well. Curvo, Káno, you two will come with me. Leave behind most of your people, for we will go in secrecy and stealth. Tyelko, you are in charge of the defence whilst I am gone, Maitimo, you carry on with your task of making contacts among the Mithrim Sindar -"

"I met their leader earlier, a nice fellow named Annael," Maedhros put in. "He seemed pleased at the prospect of aid against the Enemy's Orcs." 

"Very good!" Fëanor continued. "Moryo, Pityo, Telvo, you three are to proceed with building up the camp. Ensure you bear in mind all we know about making a defensible formation. Use the land to assist you. Earthen barriers are easy to build and soil is plentiful!" 

"We know, Dad," Caranthir said, rolling his eyes a little. 

Fëanor smiled a little at Caranthir's tone, and tapped him playfully on the nose. "Well, see that it's done. We shall leave as soon as we can gather supplies."

* * *

"We fear no spiders," Fëanor said to the lone silver-haired Sinda who was attempting to persuade them to come with him to Menegroth. "Beleg - did you say your name was Beleg? - we are on a swift errand and need all haste possible." His Sindarin was perfectly serviceable if heavily accented due to having learned it in Mithrim, during the brief time they had been there, between skirmishes with Orcs. 

"But where are you going that you must go through this region of terror?" Beleg frowned. He glanced up at the trees, where a branch swayed not quite with the wind. 

"To Nan Elmoth," Maglor put in. "Where, so we hear, a famed smith dwells."

Beleg burst out laughing. "And so one does!" He called out to the tree, "Mablung, get down here! These Noldorin lords want to meet your brother!" 

A second Sinda, dark of hair and stern of face, jumped down from the tree. "Well, if you want to meet Eöl, I suppose we should take you there. The paths are winding and difficult, even for such as you, and if your errand is urgent, it's best you not get lost." He turned back to Beleg. "Husband, will you come with us?" 

"Yes," Beleg said. "Only let me send a message to the Queen." He whistled softly, and soon a nightingale appeared, perching on his hand. They seemed to hold a brief conversation in birdsong, and then the nightingale flew off. 

"If Tyelko saw that, he would be most intrigued," Curufin said, nudging Fëanor with his shoulder. 

Behind them, Maglor and Gildor were having a quick whispered conversation. "Yes, he did call him husband, I agree," Maglor said.

"There, you see, your fears were groundless!" Gildor's voice was a little louder than Maglor's, and he looked up to realise the whole company was watching them. He blushed bright red. "Pay no mind to us," he said sheepishly. "Simply a discussion of potential cultural differences, which in this case, appear to, well, not be different."

* * *

"We call this Spider Vale," Beleg said from his position behind Mablung on their shared horse, bow slung over his shoulder. "A darkness came and dwelt here for a time, and when she left, departing whither we know not, the spiders came from here in their hundreds. That was when our Queen set up the Girdle of Doriath, a defence she keeps alive with her own strength, to watch the borders and ensure no evil thing slips through."

"Of course we Marchwardens also watch the borders," Mablung put in. "Queen Melian's power is such that evil is kept out, but it does Doriath no favours to have enemies ever just beyond the woods, so we patrol, and keep safe the paths beyond." 

The woods and the hills were alive with eyes: peering down at them from the trees, glancing out from behind rocks and small hillocks, gleaming out from low bushes like tiny red stars. The path was narrow, and every one of Fëanor's company was alert to danger, hands on weapons, Fëanorian lamps illuminating the darkness. Beleg had his bow out, ready to shoot the nearest evil thing that moved. 

After a time, the horses began to become distressed, catching foul scents on the air. Gildor dropped down from behind Maglor, and went to speak softly to their horse, one of the most unhappy - she had been in Formenos when Morgoth came there, and ever after was prone to fear of eyes in the darkness. 

Yet the eyes stayed back and came no closer. Whether this was due to fear of the bright eyes and battle readiness of the company, whether the spiders were still too young yet to try their mettle in battle, or whether the Elvenfolk simply did not look appetising, no one could have told. The mountains eventually fell away as they rode on, and a wide plain emerged. Curufin glanced about as they rode through it, evidently intrigued by its possibilities. 

A dark wood loomed up before them in time. Before they entered it, Mablung and Beleg called a halt, and they took some rest, for they had ridden hard and long, only stopping to rest twice briefly during the long march through Nan Dungortheb. 

"Tell me more about your brother, if you will," Fëanor said to Mablung, as they settled down by the campfire. 

Mablung shook his head. "I cannot say much, for in truth we do not spend much time together, and it's best you meet him for yourself. A shadow lies on him, for he was once held captive by the Enemy you seek, and escaped. He will not speak to me of that time, but maybe he will speak more of it to you, for I sense a similar shadow on you." 

"He who we have named Morgoth, the Black Foe, killed my father and stole my works," Fëanor said. 

"That would be enough to lay a shadow on anyone's heart," Beleg said. "So you pursued him here, desiring revenge? I for one would welcome the chance to strike a blow against the foe who stole so many of my loved ones, far back in years that are now vanished, even to Cuiviénen." 

"Did you know my father?" Fëanor asked Beleg. "He was Finwë, leader of the Noldor." 

"I knew him by sight and reputation, but not to speak to," Beleg said. "But you bear the look of another who I knew, Míriel, she whom they called the Broideress."

"She was my mother," Fëanor said, and fell silent. 

"So she wed Finwë!" Beleg said excitedly, not seeming to notice Fëanor's sombre look for a moment. "I always thought those two children would get along well. She was the daughter of my awakening-partner, my sister in heart Sengo, who chose to remain at Cuiviénen. I considered Míriel my niece and always wondered what became of her." 

"Well, wonder no more," Maglor said, when Fëanor did not reply. He took his harp from where it had been strapped to his bag, and sat down next to Gildor by the fireside. "But I warn you, it's not the happiest of tales." He began singing, soft and low, the song he had made of his grandparents' story, and Gildor joined in after a time to sing Míriel's parts. 

A few verses into the song, Fëanor stood up and walked away quietly from the fire, Curufin following him. They spoke in low voices together for a time. Mablung, who was not fully paying attention to the song, could hear Curufin comforting his father with soft, sympathetic words. 

As the song finished, Mablung noticed tears in Beleg's eyes, and when the last note died away, stepped forward into the firelight. "You should sleep now. We still have a difficult journey ahead." As everyone prepared for sleep, he turned to Beleg. "Do you regret...?" 

"No," Beleg said. "But it is a grief to learn that not all woes can be healed in Aman, as we were promised. I no longer wonder why these folk have returned."

* * *

Some hours later, the journey into Nan Elmoth began. "In some ways, this is the most tricky part of our journey yet," Mablung said to the company before they entered the wood. "This wood has a way of turning travellers about, ever absorbed deeper and deeper into it. Here, it is said, Melian our Queen met Thingol our King, and their singleminded contemplation of each other for nigh a hundred years caused the forest itself to become a trackless maze for the unwary, for it grew up from tiny saplings to tall trees whilst they were lost in each other's eyes." 

"A romantic tale," Maglor remarked placidly. 

Gildor rolled his eyes. "A frightening tale, I would say rather!" 

Maglor turned, laughing, upon him. "Clearly you and I have very different standards of romance." 

Gildor cast him a quick grin. "They've been compatible enough in the past." 

"That's true," Maglor said, kissing him on the cheek. Mablung restrained the urge to roll his own eyes, and instead headed into the forest, the company following behind. 

When, after many hours of carefully following the one path that was laid out with piles of small white stones, almost unnoticeable to anyone not constantly paying attention, they arrived at the heart of the wood and emerged before Eöl's house, Mablung drew a sigh of relief, calling on everyone to halt. Almost before he was finished, the door to the smithy opened, and Eöl himself came out. 

"Brother!" he said with some surprise, catching Mablung in an embrace. "It's good to see you! Why have you come?" 

"These folk wished to meet you, hearing of your fame as a smith," Mablung said, gesturing to the Noldor. Fëanor swung down from his horse and advanced, hand out, to meet Eöl. "This is Fëanor, King of the Noldor, recently returned from Aman on a quest for vengeance." 

"Vengeance?" Eöl's eyes kindled with pale flame. "Against our Enemy?" He was taller than Fëanor by nearly a head, though Fëanor was more solidly built. 

"Our Black Foe is yours as well," Fëanor said, and they clasped hands. "We need your aid." 

"If you are King of the Noldor," Eöl said, looking at Fëanor closely, "where then is Finwë? For it was he who was their King, when his people parted from ours." 

"Finwë my father lies dead, slain by the Morgoth who stole my treasures and put out the light of the Two Trees. We come to fight him, to kill him as recompense for Finwë's death, and to recover that which he stole. Will you aid us?" 

"Gladly," Eöl said, looking around at the company. In addition to Mablung and Beleg, a score of people accompanied Fëanor. "Though I am not sure I can house you all." 

"We brought tents," Fëanor said. "We would not impose on your hospitality more than you are able to provide." 

"Very well," Eöl said. "But I have guestroom for you at least."

"Thank you," Fëanor answered, and turned to his sons, standing just behind him. He laid a hand each on Maglor's and Curufin's shoulders. "Káno, if you would set up camp immediately. I wish to get started right away. Curvo, please join us once things are well in hand."

"Yes, Dad," they said, and Maglor began to give instructions to their followers in a low voice. 

Mablung and Beleg followed Eöl and Fëanor into the house, and made themselves at home in the room that they already knew. Eöl led Fëanor to a guest room, and closed the door, speaking to him for the first time in private. 

"You bear the mark of one who has known what it is like to be battle-fey," he said, laying a hand on Fëanor's arm. "If you wish to win this fight, you cannot let the desire for revenge consume you wholly."

"Do I have a choice about that?" Fëanor said, eyes shining bright as a flame. 

"Yes," Eöl said. "I too once rushed into battle without knowing what I was doing, and I suffered for it in darkness many years. But you are a King, as is my kinsman, and the fate of your people rests with you. If you rush ahead into the darkness to find your fate awaiting you, you take your people - your sons and all your folk - into the darkness with you."

"But darkness lies behind me as well, and where then shall I turn?" Fëanor said. 

"To the light that you still have," Eöl said solemnly. "You are not the only one with dark deeds behind them. But a star fell, and I followed it here, out of bondage, out of darkness." 

"Is this the star-iron I have heard tell of?" Fëanor asked. 

Eöl smiled. "Yes. Do you want to see it?"

* * *

The smithy was laid out well, Fëanor saw immediately, and the five apprentices who worked there were all strong and sturdy young Elves, save one, who was very short and bearded. 

"This is Telchar," Eöl said, "one of the Naugrim, the dwarf-folk." 

Telchar glanced up at Eöl and Fëanor, setting aside his project, and Fëanor went to one knee, extending his hand. "I am Fëanor, onetime student of Aulë," he said. "So you are a Dwarf! Long have I desired to meet your people." 

Telchar removed his gloves, and took Fëanor's hand in both of his. "There's a strange light in your eyes," he said. "You would burn yourself up like a forge-flame bereft of fuel, given half the chance." 

"If I must, then I will," Fëanor said. "But on the whole, I would rather not." He took a breath. "I look forward to working with you." He stood back up again, releasing Telchar's hand, and turned back to Eöl. "Your star-iron?"

Eöl laughed. "You do get right to the point, don't you?" he said. "Come then, this way." 

They walked into the back room of the smithy, full of projects in various states of completion. "We dig the metal up, as needed," Eöl said, opening the back door, and emerging into the wood. "I built my home near the source of it - the only source known in Beleriand." 

A small crater, surrounded by saplings, lay a few hundred feet away, and Fëanor followed Eöl along the path to it. Some of the metal had clearly been taken away already, but there was enough yet for any amount of work. Fëanor bent and passed a hand over the raw metal, feeling its strength. "How do you dig it up?" 

"With difficulty, and heat," Eöl said. "We have to essentially melt it to get it out." He gestured to a banked fire nearby. "We build that up, light fire torches, and melt through the easiest parts to bring up. It's what gives the metal its black appearance, for you see it is silver in the ground."

"I could probably refine your process," Fëanor said. 

Eöl nodded. "Probably. Truth be told, I am no miner - particularly not of this stuff. My talents lie in the forge itself."

* * *

They made their way back into the forge, where Curufin was waiting. 

"So," Fëanor said to Eöl with a quick smile, a teasing note in his voice, "tell me more of your famed talents." 

"Dad," Curufin said, looking pained, but Eöl smiled back. 

"Let me see your sword," he said, and Fëanor gave him another quick smile, while Curufin, visibly red, put a hand to his face. After a moment, Fëanor removed his sword from its sheath on his belt. 

"What do you want with it?"

Eöl unsheathed his own sword and lay them both, side-by-side on a workbench. The stone walls of the smithy, just above the bench, were thick with black smoke. He examined both swords carefully, then raised his head. 

"Your blade is unsuited for war," he said. 

Fëanor's eyebrows nearly hit his hairline."Why?" he asked, spitting the word out. 

"It's a toy for a child, nothing more," Eöl answered. "It'll barely survive contact with the Orcs the Enemy send, much less pierce a Balrog's armour and flesh." 

"And your blade is different?" Fëanor took up both blades and looked at them in the light, checking the stress points and the joins. 

"Allow me to demonstrate," Eöl said. Extending his hand, he waited until Fëanor placed his sword in it, then walked over to the stone wall of the smithy and slammed the sword, point-first, into it. Fëanor gasped as the sword bent out of shape, unable to hold against the stone. "Now you try mine." 

Fëanor immediately did the same with Eöl's black sword, slamming it full-force against the stone of the wall. Much to his surprise, the stone itself cracked, spiderwebbing out from the blow. 

"That's the difference between killing an Orc, and just barely nicking it," Eöl said. 

"Teach me how," Fëanor said, laying the black sword on the workbench again, and staring up at Eöl with wide, pleased eyes. Behind them, unseen, Curufin shook his head, hand still half-covering his face.

* * *

Time passed. They had figured out a rudimentary way of telling time almost immediately after the Darkening, and it would have been twenty-two Minglings or so in the time of the Trees. Eöl's household ran on a slightly different schedule: ten hours of work, divided by a two-hour break at the five-hour mark, then twelve hours of rest. Fëanor's first request was to create a second shift, keeping the forge fires running all the time. 

All of Fëanor's followers had found suitable work - some of them spent their time digging ore out of the crater, those who were forge-trained were kept busy in the smithy on the second shift, and the rest were put to work in the kitchens or hunting for food, with Mablung and Beleg as their guides. Maglor spent his time learning the lore of Nan Elmoth and Doriath, when he wasn't hunting. Curufin, of course, was in the forge right alongside his father and Eöl, and made a special effort to get to know the apprentices, particularly Telchar. They were already well on their way to becoming fast friends. 

After ten cycles of this, nearly two hundred swords were ready to go, wrapped in leather sheaths tanned by the hunters. Several suits of armour, fashioned after the general pattern of Eöl's, were also ready for Fëanor, Maglor, and Curufin, and eight black shields bore the Fëanorian star in white gems brought from Valinor. 

Eöl found Fëanor working on the last few swords, alone in the smithy. Everyone else had stopped for the mid-shift meal, but Fëanor never took the full two hours. "Stop," he said, when he saw that Fëanor was at a place in the work where he could leave it alone for a little while. "We are not far from finished with what you asked of me." 

Fëanor placed his hands on the workstation, bent over it, breathing heavily, for a moment. "I would like to ask more of you," he said. 

"What would you ask?" Eöl quickly responded. 

Fëanor turned, holding out his hands in a gesture of not-quite-begging. "Come with us," he said. "Fight the Black Foe yourself by my side." 

Eöl stepped forward, so close he could have taken Fëanor's hands in his own. "I have no great wish to leave my woods," he said. 

Fëanor gazed up at him, eyes hazy with an expression Eöl had begun to understand was affection. "I have no great wish to leave you behind," he said, and stepped forward a little, raising his hands to Eöl's face. He drew Eöl down, and gently kissed his mouth. Eöl found himself wrapping his arms around Fëanor, kissing him back just as gently at first, then harder. A bright spark fizzed through his veins and sent arousal spinning dizzily through his mind. 

"If I come with you," he said, and kissed Fëanor again, "what will your children think?"

"That I have been parted from their mother for at least a hundred years," Fëanor said, pressing another kiss to his throat, "and deserve some small happiness." 

"You would call me small?" Eöl, teasing, drew back, standing up to his full height. 

Fëanor grinned, sliding a hand across Eöl's groin. "Clearly not the right word. I deserve some _great_ pleasure," he quipped, "and I intend to keep it." 

Eöl swallowed, unable to resist. "Get on the workbench," he said, "and I'll show you some great pleasure." 

The look that came over Fëanor's face then was a wonder to behold. "Oh thank all the stars," he said, and immediately obeyed, sliding his leather apron off and throwing it to the side. Eöl reached behind his workstation for the bottle of massage oil he kept there. 

Fëanor had his leather trousers worked halfway down his hips before Eöl found the massage oil and turned back to see him displayed, cock rising from his unlaced breeches, dark hair spilling over the workbench, shirt half undone. It was a pleasant sight, and Eöl found himself contemplating it for a moment, before Fëanor made an impatient noise and rose up on his elbows, wordlessly telling him to get on with it. 

Eöl smiled. "Very well, just a moment," he said, and quickly unbuttoned the long robe he was wearing. His clothes tended toward the more formal, particularly now that he had guests, and Fëanor had never seen him clothed any less than from the neck down to his boots. Even in the heat of the forge, he kept his clothes on. 

But now he was taking them off, button by implacable button, revealing dark skin with lighter scars running across his chest, evidence of old torture. "Come here," Fëanor whispered, breath stolen in mingled sympathy for his past agony and arousal at his beauty. For it was as if the scars he bore only highlighted the curves of muscles beneath, the strength of those arms, the fierceness of his face. 

Eöl obeyed the request silently, and Fëanor slid his hands under the robe, pulling it off Eöl's shoulders until it puddled on the floor. He traced one of the deeper scars with a fingertip and the sensitive skin there sent shivers up and down Eöl's spine. "I'd like you to fuck me, Master Smith," he said, "here on this table. I've wanted you since the first moment I saw you and your beautiful dark eyes. I want you to come with me, on me, in me, all over me, and back to Mithrim with me."

Eöl took a ragged breath, and, wordless, leaned down to kiss Fëanor hard and long. Their cocks brushed as Fëanor fell carefully back onto the table and Eöl climbed up on it. The forge was hot, windows steamed up, the anvil next to the table still holding a cooling black sword, but that heat was as nothing compared to the heat running through him at the touch of Fëanor's skin against his own. 

Taking a little of the massage oil in his hand, he began to work Fëanor open, aided by Fëanor's soft moans interspersed with instructions, as if he were a student in the ways of love. "That's it - just there - ahh yes. Now another finger - ohh, that's so - mmm, very good..." Fëanor trailed off as Eöl bent to kiss him again, two fingers thrusting inside him. For a moment Eöl wished he could spend hours and hours just working Fëanor open, just to see what delicious nonsense he would say in that maddening voice of his. 

Then Fëanor put a hand on his cock and stroked him, bringing him to full hardness, and Eöl no longer wanted to wait, or do anything else but bury himself in Fëanor's tight heat. Withdrawing his fingers, he knelt between Fëanor's legs, and pushed into him, steady and sure, until he was deep inside. Fëanor's eyes were half-closed in bliss, and Eöl began to thrust, Fëanor's hard cock rubbing against his belly each time. 

Fëanor was still making noises, but these were incoherent noises of bliss. Caught up in the sounds and the feel of him, Eöl didn't notice the door to the smithy being opened, but he heard it shut, and turned his head. Dark hair that could only have been Curufin passed rapidly by the window, running footsteps vanishing in the distance. Fëanor's eyes opened suddenly. "Who was that?" he said. 

"Curufin, I think," Eöl said, wrapping his arms around Fëanor's shoulders and hauling him up into his lap. Fëanor obliged by putting his own arms around Eöl's shoulders, holding him close. 

"I'll speak to him later," Fëanor said, and leaned up to kiss Eöl. "For now, please don't stop." 

Eöl didn't - could not have. The feel of Fëanor in his arms, of being inside him, was beyond intense, beyond any other love he had ever known. Fëanor was star-iron, and he was a hammer, and together they were forging victory. Only together would they win this war. 

Breathless, mind ablaze, Eöl came just as Fëanor did, pulsing around him and against him. He eased them both down to the table, and they lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, for a long time.

* * *

The shouts and screams from the besiegers and besieged were plain to hear as Eöl, Fëanor and their company advanced at a rapid pace toward Lake Mithrim. Orcs were gathered around the earthen fort, nearly at the verge of breaking in. From behind them, Celegorm's followers, along with Celegorm himself, tried to pick them off on a second front. But the Orcs were too many. 

Only twenty-five the company of Fëanor numbered, but they bore star-iron swords. Coaxing their horses into a last dash, they raced toward the Orcs besieging the fort. Beleg's bow sang again and again, Maglor's voice rose above the din, chanting words of power, Gildor was like a white flame racing into the fray. Together, Eöl and Fëanor charged the Orcs, fighting back to back, cutting down all the foes who dared come near them. 

After a short time, the gate of the fortress opened and Maedhros, at the head of a small company, strode out. Attacked on three sides, the Orcs could not hold. They broke and ran, heading north and east - any way that would lead them eventually back to Angband. 

When all were scattered, Fëanor jumped down from his horse, throwing his arms around any of his sons within reach, laughing with joy to see them all unharmed. Eöl dismounted too, more slowly, and Mablung came up beside him, still panting from exertion but uninjured. Eöl put an arm around him. "So, brother, what do you think of the Noldor?" Mablung asked, teasing. 

"I think," Eöl said, smiling, "that with them we stand a chance to win our war. Hard-forged it will be, and against all odds, but victory is possible."


End file.
